A Wish Your Heart Makes
by Stoneheart1
Summary: As Harry ponders the next step in his budding relationship with Hermione, he discovers an unresolved issue left over from his recent dream. This is the requested sequel to Dream Girl.


**Author's Note**: It's flattering when one is asked to write a sequel. Unfortunately, a story requires an idea. Much as we would wish otherwise, story ideas do _not_ come when you call them, like a horse or a dog. They're more like cats, actually. They come when they feel like it, on _their_ whim rather than _yours_, and no amount of coaxing can change that obstinacy.  
  
Fortunately, after much mental prodding, an idea _did_ come. Whether it is _good_ enough remains for the readers to judge. But, for good or ill, here it is.  
  
**Disclaimer**: Everything here belongs to J.K. Rowling (except the plot, which she can have for a reasonable fee).  
  


***

  
  
"C'mon, Harry," Ron cajoled, "you can tell _me_! What's it like?"  
  
Harry paused, the cleaning rag held before him, then resumed polishing the handle of his Firebolt.  
  
"Dunno yet," he murmured, rubbing the handle vigorously until the wood shone a rich, deep brown.  
  
Brown as a pair of deep, coffee-colored eyes, Harry mused.  
  
"Get off!" Ron said with a disbelieving smile. "You've been on, what, five or six dates with Hermione, and you're telling me you haven't snogged her yet?"  
  
Harry shrugged, sighed, and went back to polishing his broom.  
  
"What are you waiting for, mate?" Ron said enthusiastically. "She was _my_ girlfriend, I'd be all _over_ her!" A vague expression drifted over Ron's face as he reflected, "You ever notice the way she purses her lips when she's really annoyed? Blimey, if there was ever a mouth begging to be kissed, it's that one."  
  
Harry's insides did a momentary backflip. He had thought the very same thing more than once, but hearing Ron voice it aloud seemed somehow to demean Hermione. He gave an uncomfortable shrug.  
  
"Well, you said it before, didn't you? If she was your girlfriend. I guess that's the trouble. I don't know if Hermione _is_ my girlfriend."  
  
"What are you on about, Harry?" Ron said, cocking an eyebrow. "There's not another bloke, is there?"  
  
"That's just _it_, Ron," Harry said, the cleaning rag held limply in his hand. "I don't even know if she _wants_ a boyfriend in that sense. I mean, we go on Hogsmeade weekends and all. We've taken walks around the lake. I've even held her hand a few times. But, I dunno -- whenever I think about taking the next step..."  
  
"_There's_ your trouble, mate!" Ron said pointedly. "You're not supposed to _think_, you're supposed to _act_! Next time you're alone, just grab her and plant one on her!"  
  
"And that works for _you_, does it?" Harry asked, doing his best to suppress a grin, not altogether successfully.  
  
"Welll," Ron said, his hands spread in resignation, "you win some, you lose some. _But_," he added, raising a finger for emphasis, "even if you go down in flames, at least you took your best shot!"  
  
"But I don't _think_ of Hermione in that way," Harry said helplessly.  
  
"What?" Ron said skeptically. "You're telling me you don't want to snog her senseless?"  
  
"No. Yes. Blimey, Ron, things were so much simpler when we were just friends. Now everything is all mixed up." Following a meditative pause, Harry said, "I do think about it a lot, actually. Just the two of us, under a tree by the lake, or up in the Astronomy tower when the meteor showers start next month.   
  
"But what does _she_ think? That's what's got me all tied up in knots. A kiss on the cheek on Platform 9 3/4 is one thing. But does she ever think about us...you know..."  
  
Harry sighed, tossed his cleaning rag aside and lay down on his bed.  
  
"Hermione's...she's just..."  
  
"She sure is," Ron said, his voice bearing no trace of levity.  
  
"She's so...so ordered," Harry said. "So logical and sensible. When _I_ think about us in...that way...my brain kind of goes light, and I can't concentrate on anything. I just can't picture Hermione feeling that way. She likes being in control, and I don't think she'd permit herself to...to be dictated to, I guess."  
  
Harry shifted his eyes so that Ron was just visible over the edge of his pillow.  
  
"I know it's not a kind thing to say...and I'd never say it to anyone but you...but we both know that Hermione is never going to stand out in terms of looks and personality. And she knows that, too. So she concentrates on excelling with her mind. And I...don't know if she's willing to make that trade."  
  
"You might be selling Hermione short," Ron said. "You never know. Shame we can't nick some veritaserum from Snape and sprinkle a few drops in her pumpkin juice. Then we could ask her straight out: 'Hermione, you ever think of snogging Harry until he passes out?' "  
  
Harry groaned, jerked his pillow around and slung it across his face.  
  
Clapping his hand to Harry's shoulder firmly, Ron said in an even voice, "My original advice still stands. Go take your best shot. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? It's not like she'd smack you across the gob like she did Malfoy. So she doesn't kiss you back. At least you'll know, won't you?"   
Yes, Harry thought silently, he would know. But did he _want_ to know? Was he prepared to accept Hermione as a friend only? They had been the best of friends for four years now. Why not simply continue on as they had?  
  
Harry knew the answer. Four years at Hogwarts had changed him -- had changed both of them. Harry was developing feelings he never knew he had, had never suspected he was capable of. It was...frightening. The very notion made him want to laugh aloud. Harry had known his share of fear in his four years as a wizard. He had known such fear as his friends could not conceive. Dragons, basilisks, giant spiders...Lord Voldemort..._those_ were things to inspire fear. Not something so silly...so ridiculous...as...as...  
  
"Come on, Ron," Harry said suddenly, bolting up and grabbing his Firebolt. He snapped his broomstick cleaning kit -- his 13th birthday present from Hermione -- shut and slid it under his bed. "The pitch is empty now. Let's go have a practice. You ever want to make Keeper, you can't afford to get rusty."  
  
"Dead on," Ron said. "You got the key to the broom locker?"  
  
"Don't need it," Harry said. "I finally got the Alohomora Charm down."  
  
"I never could get that one right," Ron said. "Let me guess. Hermione?"  
  
"Who else?" Harry smiled. "She drummed it into me until my head ached."  
  
  
Descending the boys' staircase, they entered the Gryffindor common room at almost the same instant as Hermione. She was just climbing through the portrait hole, though less than gracefully, as her arms were loaded with books.  
  
"Been to the library?" Ron asked innocently, winking at Harry. But his sarcasm was for nought, seeming to go right over Hermione's head.  
  
"Research for an essay I'm writing for Arithmancy," Hermione said, balancing at least eight books as best she could. "Four feet of parchment. For extra credit."  
  
"Since when do _you_ need extra credit?" Ron laughed. "You're top student in our year!"  
  
"Yes," Hermione panted, struggling to keep her grip. "But I've fallen off a bit lately. My average is down to 105%."  
  
"Scandalous!" Ron grimaced. "Be gettin' a Howler any day now, you will. Right, Harry?"  
  
All through this exchange, Harry had been unable to take his eyes off Hermione. Her face was becoming flushed from the effort of holding so many books aloft, and as she struggled to keep them from slipping through her arms, Harry observed that her lips were pursing in concentration.  
  
Ron was right. If ever there was a mouth begging to be kissed, it was that one.   
  
"I don't have to guess where _you're_ off to, do I?" Hermione smirked, her eyes on the broom in Harry's hand.  
  
"Guess not," Harry grinned. Then, as if suddenly coming to his senses: "Need a hand?"  
  
But at that moment, Lavender Brown entered the common room from the girls' staircase and instantly swooped down on Hermione, relieving her of half her burden while scowling at Ron and Harry for not having done so straightaway.  
  
As her face began to resume its normal color, Hermione flashed Harry a bright smile and said, "Have fun!" And, Lavender leading the way, Hermione glided up the girls' staircase, leaving Harry staring after her stupidly. He never knew how long he would have stood thus had Ron not grabbed his robes and jerked him toward the portrait hole.  
  
"C'mon, mate," Ron sighed through a grin. "You need this workout more than _I_ do!"  
  
  


*

  
  
A rush of warm air and a babble of cheerful conversation met Harry as he stepped into the Three Broomsticks and quickly closed the door behind him. He was about to shrug off his cloak and hang it on one of the many pegs on the right-hand wall when he saw that there was not an empty peg to be found. A quick sweep of the pub revealed the reason. The firelit chamber was packed to the farthest corner with magical folk of every description, at least half of whom appeared to be Hogwarts students.  
  
Harry craned his neck in an attempt to see over or through the crowd, but it was a hopeless exercise. Wasting no further effort, he drew his wand, touched it to his midsection and said, "_Wingardium Leviosa_." His stomach doing a somersault, Harry felt himself rising up toward the ceiling, from the crossbeams of which hung brass lamps from which golden flames cast a soft, flickering light over all. From this vantage point Harry surveyed the room, and it took him less than a minute's searching to single out a tall figure with flaming red hair. Marking the spot in his mind, Harry again brandished his wand, muttered, "_Dissendio_," and floated down to the floor as lightly as an Autumn leaf in the streets outside.  
  
Squeezing through the crowd with difficulty, Harry came at last to a small half-table, its flat side flush against the wall not far from the firepace. It's round outer side was long enough to accomodate only three chairs. Two of these were empty, and before each sat a steaming mug of butterbeer on a round coaster. A third mug was currently being hefted by the occupant of the third chair, who took a long pull, sighed with satisfaction, then looked up with a broad smle on his freckled face.  
  
" 'Bout time you got here," Ron said, scooping up a handful of peanuts from a bowl set against the wall and popping them into his mouth. "Where'f Hermi'ne," he mumbled, licking salt from his lips as he reached once more for his mug.  
  
"Couldn't make it," Harry said, sitting down and grasping the handle of his mug eagerly.  
  
"Careful," Ron cautioned. "I ordered yours extra hot since I knew you'd be coming after."  
  
Heeding Ron's warning, Harry took a cautionary sip. A delicious warmth spread through him, and he took a longer pull this time, emitting a satisfied sigh reminiscent of Ron's.  
  
"Well, then," Ron said, setting aside his empty mug and grasping the one reserved for Hermione, "no sense lettin' this go to waste, eh?" He took a savory gulp and smacked his lips before asking, "What is is this time, then? Research in the library? Another SPEW meeting?"   
  
"Dunno," Harry said, munching on peanuts one at a time from a pile he had set before him. "Just said she had to do something special. Said she wanted to surprise me."  
  
"No ideas?" Ron said as he nicked a peanut from Harry's pile and flipped it unerringly into his mouth.   
  
"Not a dickie bird," Harry said as he took another sip of his butterbeer. "But you know Hermione. Could be anything."  
  
"So, Harry, you done it yet?" Ron said without warning, hiding his grin behind the rim of his mug.  
  
Harry flushed slightly and sipped his butterbeer in silence. Ron seemed about to renew his assault on Harry's lack of fortitude, but instead he said, "Long as Hermione's not coming, what say we pop over to Quality Quidditch Supplies? New brooms should be out about now."  
  
As Hermione was not a flier, she had about as much interest in brooms as Harry had in crocheting doilies. Whenever the two of them came to Hogsmeade together, Harry made it a point to avoid Quality Quidditch Supplies, though it was by far his favorite shop in town, out of consideration. But now, if it was to be only himself and Ron...  
  
"Great!" Harry said. And, draining their mugs with gusto, they elbowed their way to the door and stepped out into the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade.   
  
The weather was pleasant enough for November. Wind was minimal, and a canopy of low-hanging clouds acted like a blanket to hold the meager warmth given off by a pale, grudging sun.  
  
As they approached Quality Quidditch Supplies, Ron nudged Harry and pointed. A crowd of Hogwarts students was pressed against the window glass, obscuring all view of the contents of the display. But their very presence was enough to paint a triumphant smile on Ron's face.  
  
"New brooms are in," he said excitedly. "Let's go inside."  
  
They hurried forward, squeezed through the crowd and thrust themselves through the door.  
  
The inside of the shop was less crowded than the outside, owing to the fact that the new brooms were far too expensive for the average Hogwarts student to do other than window shop. Those who ventured inside were more inclined toward purchasing such simple items as broom handle polish, or the new calendars with moving photos of international Quidditch stars zooming back and forth above each month.  
  
Harry and Ron stepped in front of a counter bearing a dispay of Charmed polishing cloths, which promised to "buff your broom handle to a mirror finish while you watch." The clerk standing behind this display was just dispatching a satisfied customer to the checkout station, and as he turned, his rubber-stamp smile reserved for patrons was instantly exchanged for one of genuine mien.  
  
Dean Thomas had been working weekends at Quality Quidditch Supplies since the start of term, ostensibly to make a bit of pocket money. But the real incentive, he confided, was the employee discount.  
  
"Got my eye on a Nimbus 2000," Dean said when, as was inevitable in such surroundings, the subject of brooms arose. "Just like the one you used to have, Harry. Should have enough saved up by March."  
  
"Really?" Harry said in surprise. Granted, the 2000 _was_ a discontinued model; but Harry knew the Nimbus series was among the best in Europe, and even an outdated model must be expensive for a student with only weekend wages to draw upon. When Harry voiced this, Dean merely smiled and jerked his thumb in the direction of a sign hanging from the ceiling to his right.   
  
Surprise spreading across their faces, Harry and Ron read:  
  
  


BROOMSTICK RENTALS

  
  


Day - Weekend - Week - Month

  
  


Reasonable Rates

  
  
  
"I don't remember that last time I was in," Ron said, his eyes returning to Dean.  
  
"Just started last month," Dean said. "When a broom's seen six months' service, or a hundred rentals, whichever comes first, it gets retired as 'depreciated stock' and we put it on sale as second-hand. But, as an employee, _I_ can buy it at original cost! Not bad, eh?"  
  
"But what kind of people would rent a broom?" Harry asked.  
  
"All kinds," Dean said. "There's this old witch, goes down to London once a month to shop in Diagon Alley. She doesn't like Floo powder. Gets soot in her hair, and she sometimes forgets to hold her breath and came near to choking more than once. And she won't use portkeys. Says they make her queasy inside.  
  
"And she's not likely to _buy_ a broom if she only wants to use it once a month.   
  
"But the real trade comes from Hogwarts."  
  
"Hogwarts?" Harry exclaimed. "Like who?"  
  
"Quidditch players, for one," Dean said. "I don't have to tell _you_ how important a good broom is to a Quidditch player, do I?"  
  
"I _thought_ there was something odd about that Hufflepuff match," Harry mused aloud. "McKendrick wasn't nearly that good in the practices we scouted. I was lucky to get the Snitch."  
  
"Yep," Dean confirmed. "He reserved a Wildfire 1000 for match day. He wanted a Firebolt, but the deposit was too high."  
  
"Deposit?" Harry said.  
  
"Of course. Security deposit, against damage."  
  
"What about theft?" Harry asked.  
  
"No worries there," Dean affirmed. We Charm all the brooms to return automatically within an hour of the rental expiration.  
  
"And whenever we rent to a Hogwarts student, " he added, "we _Double_-Charm the broom to return _immediately_ if it strays more than a mile from the castle."  
  
"Why's that?" Harry asked.  
  
"McGonagall's orders," Dean said. "Student gets in a bit of trouble, he might be tempted to chuck it and just fly on home. Blimey, when Snape's in a foul mood, half the school's likely to desert."  
  
"Considered it once or twice myself," Harry grinned. "But where would I go? To the Dursleys? Not much of a choice, is it?"  
  
"You know," Ron said with a distant look on his face," I wouldn't mind renting a broom to take a nice, romantic moonlight ride over the grounds with some lucky girl."  
  
"You and everyone else," Dean grinned. "In fact, that was one of the reasons we decided to give this rental thing a shot. It was Madam Hooch who really clinched it, though."   
  
"Why?" Ron said. "What did she do?"  
  
"You didn't hear?" Dean said in mild surprise. "So many students were 'borrowing' brooms from the Quidditch lockers to go riding together, or for impromptu practices, she put her foot down and placed an unbreakable Locking Charm on all the broom cupboards. Well, after that our business just took off -- so to speak." Harry and Ron rolled their eyes as Dean chortled over his apparent humor. Then, as if to erase the moment and start the conversation afresh, he said, "So, Harry, when are you and Hermione going up together?"   
  
"Yeah, that'll happen," Ron said with a snort of laughter. " 'Bout the same time the Creevey brothers are re-sorted into Slytherin."  
  
"Hermione's deathly afraid of heights," Harry explained with a forced smile. "She hasn't flown since -- "  
  
Harry caught himself. Hermione's last time in the air had been on the back of Buckbeak the night the two of them had rescued Sirius from Professor Flitwick's office at the end of Third Year. But Dean wasn't to know that, of course.  
  
Jerking himself back to the present, Harry was startled to find all trace of humor vanished from Dean's face.  
  
"What is it?" Harry said, his bewilderment matched by that of Ron.  
  
"Harry," Dean said weakly. "Hermione -- she -- she rented a broom -- just this morning."  
  
Harry was too stunned to speak. Ron found his own voice only with difficulty.   
  
"It can't be! It -- it must have been someone who _looks_ like Hermione."  
  
But Ron recognized the absurdity of this statement before the words left his mouth. Dean had known Hermione quite as long as Harry and Ron, since the day of their Sorting. He could no sooner mistake her for someone else than confuse a skrewt with a flobberworm.  
  
As if spurred by an electric shock, Harry spun around and bolted from the shop, Ron hard on his heels. They burst into the street, and immediately a gust of wind smote their faces like an open hand, inflating their cloaks like the sails of a ship.  
  
"Bloody 'ell!" Ron swore, his words muffled as they were stuffed unceremoniously back down his throat. "Where did this wind come from?"  
  
His eyes glazing with horror, Harry set off at a run for Hogwarts. Even Ron's long legs were unable to match Harry's desperation as he raced between the majestic winged boars and onto the Hogwarts grounds.  
  
His brain spun with thoughts as he ran, sorting out possible places where Hermione was likely to be practicing flying her rented broomsick. In the end, there seemed only one logical place that was ideally suited for flying. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, Harry ran straight for the Quidditch pitch.  
  
At length Harry burst through a cluster of trees, stumbled and fell onto the moist, spongy ground. Gasping for breath, he rose onto his hands and knees and looked up. And he felt his insides turn to ice.  
  
Hermione was flying high above the grassy field, her broomstick being tossed to and fro by every gust of wind. She seemed to be trying to force the broomstick down, but the wind was making this difficult, and Hermione had nowhere near the skill to maneuver properly against such resistance.   
  
Ron burst out of the trees, where he stood for a moment in breathless horror before noticing Harry and scooping him up. Together they ran to the edge of the field and paused, uncertain how to proceed.  
  
The small gathering of students seemed equally uncertain. Harry was forcibly reminded of the incident at the Quidditch World Cup where the Death Eaters had suspended the Roberts family in mid-air in their sick version of a joke. None of the onlookers that day could fathom how to bring the helpless Muggle family down without risking injury.  
  
"Did someone go for a teacher?" Ron shouted, his voice edged with panic. A few students nodded, some of them looking in the direction of the castle. Ron looked as well, but he saw no one, student or teacher, in the open space between the field and the castle.  
  
Harry could not bring himself to stand and wait. He needed to act. No matter the course, he needed to do _something_! Acting purely on instinct, his brain too numb to work properly, he exploded into motion and raced straight for the Quidditch lockers. He pulled up before the door of the Gryffindor locker room, jerked out his wand and cried, "_Alohomora_!"  
  
Nothing happened. Harry gaped stupidly. The spell had worked last month, when he and Ron had gone up for their practice session!  
  
Suddenly Harry remembered Dean's words of mere minutes ago as if in a vague dream. Madam Hooch had placed a Locking Charm on all the doors. Harry recalled Professor Dumbledore placing a like Charm on the door of the hospital wing the night Hermione had employed her Time-Turner to enable the two of them to go back and save both Buckbeak and Sirius. That door had remained sealed fast until Dumbledore himself returned to cancel his own spell.  
  
His wand quivering in his hand, Harry wanted to scream, in fury and frustration. In the end, he _did_ scream -- though in a very different manner entirely. Jerking around, harry pointed his wand as straight as he could toward Gryffindor Tower and shouted, "_ACCIO FIREBOLT_!"   
  
Harry strained his ears, his whole body a taut spring fit to explode. The gusting wind rushed over his ears. Then, abruptly, there came a rushing sound of a different note. Harry saw his broomstick in the distance, a dark splinter against the slate-gray sky, growing larger, larger --  
  
Thrusting his wand into his robes, Harry reached out and caught his broom handle in mid-air. He jerked it around, swung his leg over and kicked off, leaving a just-arrived Ron gaping up after him.  
  
As had happened when he took to the air to face off against the Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament, Harry seemed to leave all fear and doubt behind as if it were nailed to the ground. His thoughts cleared, his mind becoming a calculating machine. He swept up in a high arc, so high that the spectators on the field looked like ants milling about Crookshanks' water dish.  
  
Banking now, Harry saw Hermione below him, still striving valiantly to steer her broom, but clearly lacking the skill and experience to succeed against the mercurial gusts of wind. Forcing himself to resist the urge to rush in like a rampaging hippogriff, Harry waited. He waited, and he watched.  
  
Suddenly, without conscious thought to spur him, he dived! Hovering high above, Harry had concentrated on gauging the direction and velocity of the gusting winds as they shifted back and forth in an all-but-indistinguishable pattern. As Harry dived now, the wind was blowing into his face. But any moment, now...any moment...   
  
Yes! The wind shifted, smote him on the right cheek. He swooped down, saw Hermione on his right, full-blown panic in her large, unwinking eyes. Caught by the wind, she lurched to the left, directly into Harry's path --  
  
In the wink of an eye, Harry had scooped her off her broom and deposited her in front of him. His right arm was a band of velvet steel as it encircled her waist, the fingers of his left hand gripping his broom handle until the knuckles showed white.   
  
There was the muted sound of applause from down below, but Harry paid it no heed. He swung his broomsrtick around and headed off in the direction of Hagrid's cabin as Hermione continued to cling to him fiercely, her face buried in his chest and all but obscured by his billowing robes. As their speed slackened and the wind, perhaps checked by the proximity of the forest, quieted to a tepid breeze, Harry could hear Hermione sobbing.  
  
"I'm sorry," she choked out, her shoulders heaving slightly as her fingers clawed handfuls of Harry's robes. "I'm sorry..."   
  
"It's my fault," Harry said, the merest quaver marring a voice intended to soothe. "If I wasn't always going on about broomsticks like a childish prat, you wouldn't have felt the need to learn how to fly just to please _me_."  
  
Something, perhaps the security imparted by the unrelenting force of Harry's arm around her, brought a gradual relaxation of Hermione's body. Disengaging her left hand from Harry's waist (though continuing to cling to him with her right arm with a grip of iron), Hermione wiped her eyes and lifted her head slightly. Her normally cream-colored cheeks were glowing red, partly from the wind, partly from crying. She looked up at Harry...and, very gently, she smiled.  
  
An odd feeling came over Harry as they descended in a slow, lazy spiral, Hermione pressed against him, her heart beating against her ribs. And against his own.   
  
He had been here before.  
  
"My dream," Harry said, not realizing he had spoken aloud.  
  
"Your -- what?" Hermione said, surveying Harry with eyes slightly pink, yet still so deliciously soft and brown.   
  
"I had a dream," Harry said, his eyes now peering deep into Hermione's. "About holding you like this...in the air...on my Firebolt...  
  
"Only -- the dream ended too soon."  
  
"Too soon?" Hermione said, her eyes welded to Harry's.  
  
"It ended," Harry said softly, "before I could do...this."  
  
Harry bent and placed a gentle but emphatic kiss upon Hermione's lips. She stiffened in surprise, then, abruptly, became as warm clay against Harry, feeling softer than anything he had ever imagined.  
  
Hermione's mouth opened slightly, her lips soft as melted butter upon his. As she clung to him, Harry could feel her heart beating faster, its rhythm matching his own. The closest Harry had ever come to the feeling he was now experiencing was the day in Defense Against the Dark Arts when he had been placed under the Imperius Curse. Back then, a voice in the back of his head had urged him to resist, to fight back against the waves of heavenly bliss that enveloped his brain like an irresistable tide. This time, however, that voice was mute, its very silence an unspoken Wish that this moment would never end.   
  
But end it must, and end it did. As they both gasped quietly, having forgotten even to breathe, Harry looked almost apologetically into Hermione's eyes and said, "Been wanting to do that for ages. But I didn't...I mean, I wasn't..."  
  
"If _you_ hadn't," Hermione said, still somewhat breathless, " _I_ would have."  
  
Hardly believing his ears, Harry lowered his eyes and said, "I wish I'd been...you know...better..."   
  
"Well," Hermione said slowly, "we're both just starting out, aren't we? I'm sure we'll...improve..."  
  
A smiling Harry was now very certain that the scarlet spreading across Hermione's cheeks was unrelated either to wind or tears.  
  
"Wood always said there's no such thing as too much practice."  
  
Blushing even deeper, Hermione said, " I always knew there was something I liked about Oliver."  
  
As Harry and Hermione haltingly merged once more, neither noticed a large figure staring up at them, his massive hand shielding his eyes, the collar of his moleskin overcoat turned to the wind.   
  
Hagrid was suddenly aware that someone was standing beside him, his own eyes shaded as he followed the larger man's gaze, though with a look of satisfaction rather than puzzlement.  
  
"Why don' Harry come down?" Hagrid asked Ron. "Wha's 'e doin' up there?"  
  
"Living a dream," Ron said with a blithe smile. "Or a wish, maybe. Same thing, according to Dean."  
  
"What yer talkin' 'bout?" Hagrid said, scratching his shaggy head.   
  
"Just a Muggle song Dean's mum used to sing him. 'A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes.' "  
  
Hagrid's beetle-black eyes grew strangely soft. "I kinder like tha'. 'A Dream Is A Wish Yer 'Eart Makes.' I'll af'ta tell Harry tha' when 'e comes down."   
  
"Might be a while, that," Ron said, grinning wider as he squinted up at the two figures on the now stationary broomstick. "Wouldn't happen to have a kettle on, would you?"  
  
"I migh'," Hagrid returned playfully. "Fancy a cupper, then?"  
  
At Ron's nod of assent, Hagrid flung open his door and entered his cabin, muttering, "Down, Fang!" Pausing at the threshold, Ron sniffed the air.   
  
"Been baking, Hagrid?"  
  
"Treacle tarts," Hagrid said cheerfully. "Been lookin' fer someone ter test 'em out on."  
  
Shivering inwardly, Ron squared his shoulders and said, "Right, then."  
  
As Ron made to close the door, Hagrid said over his shoulder, "How long yer reckin Harry'll stay up there?"  
  
Casting a last glance skyward, Ron said, "We might be here a while, Hagrid." And in a softer voice, he added, "Some dreams a bloke doesn't want to rush."  
  
And he closed the door behind him.  



End file.
